


nutmeg constellations (moonshine eyes)

by poppiess



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, M/M, One Shot, Onesided Love, Pining Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Prinxiety - Freeform, Sad, heartbreak (personified), lots of projection, moxiety - Freeform, other plans, roman pines for virgil but virgil has
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 15:47:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17083190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppiess/pseuds/poppiess
Summary: virgil teaches roman a lot. e.g: never underestimate a moody emo with a fiery tongue; heaven smells like acrylic paint, leather and honey-scented bodywash; love is a fickle friend.alternatively:roman meets heartbreak for the first time.





	nutmeg constellations (moonshine eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> [warning: this contains heavy one-sided pining, unrequited love, mentions of homophobia and a homophobic character, a fight, bruises, cuts, a split lip, general angstiness, dark humour, mentions of body horror and suicide but just as comparisons, some self deprecation, passive rejection, heartbreak (personified) and swearing.]

ouch

x x x

roman met virgil in theatre class on the first day of freshman year, when he was just the snarky stagehand with the big doe eyes, a kind of background character in roman’s fabulous life.

and roman, a dumbass, he immediately assumed, like a dumbass, that he had him all figured out at the first glance. virgil tempeste was just someone - someone he knew by name and game yet didn’t really know,

you know?

but words were exchanged and quips were traded and smirks were caught and thrown until roman realised virgil had rudely refused to just be a someone. he had practically _kicked_ the lid off the box roman had placed him in and _leaped_ out (hands stuck into his hoodie pockets as usual, maybe scrolling nonchalantly through his phone) then sauntered over to roman’s very hard to come by box of genuinely interesting people and slid in as if it was the easiest thing in the world. and suddenly, just like that, roman princeford found himself drawn to the moody emo’s easy banter and sly grins and oh, dear, what was he getting himself into?

at first, he kept up all his usual walls. he remained roman, the prince: the charming, the gorgeous, king of lopsided smiles and woo-er of men. but virgil’s slippy little fingers somehow worked their way through the defences he’d so intricately woven and he found himself letting things slip he usually wouldn’t - details about his family and home life and insecurities that would make him seize up with regret after he’d so carelessly released them. he was beautiful, yes, he knew that well enough, but around virgil… his tongue was heavy and clumsy. everything he said felt wrong or awkward, yet being with him felt so right.

good god, he was falling for a boy who wore black nail polish, and he was falling hard and fast and deep.

they became friends, and roman expected his….. strange ailment to ebb. needless to say, it didn’t. and it wouldn’t. and it couldn’t.

because virgil was a poem in a language roman didn’t speak. he was uncharted territory, a foreign sensation, something new - he was champagne after years of stale water, burning the back of his throat, he was something crisp and sharp. roman began to crave it. he began to crave him, in all his utter eccentricity: his body was so curiously formatted, all curves and angles, soft melting into sharp like sand into to the ocean. oh, and he had nimble fingers and delicate eyelashes and eyes that glimmered with untold wit and charisma, and careful hands and clumsy dimples and elegant limbs which seemed to flow and then, all over his body -

freckles, nutmeg constellations he ached to skim and trace.

‘i don’t like them,’ he had complained loudly one lunchtime, juicebox straw dangling lewdly from his mouth. ‘they make me look, like… dirty. or uneven. my foundation won’t even cover them all. it sucks.’  
and roman was overtaken by a white-hot longing to pull him close to his chest and draw those insecurities right from his pretty little head, and to plant a kiss upon his curly mauve locks, and to tell him he was the most frustratingly beautiful person he’d ever laid eyes on.  
‘falsehood,’ logan had said, ‘i think your freckles are very becoming.’  
whereas patton had slammed his palms onto the table, the cutlery jerking with a silvery clatter as their eyes met. ‘how could you ever think you’re even the slightest bit ugly, vee?’ he’d cupped virgil’s face, making him giggle. ‘you! are! perfect!’  
‘pfft, what…ever, i guess,’ virgil had spluttered, slapping patton’s hands with a barely suppressed smile. ‘i’ll let you guys think that if you really want.’  
‘a face without freckles is a night without stars,’ roman had mumbled, hoping nobody would hear. virgil did, choked into his pasta, and then a subtle flush had coloured his cheeks for the rest of the meal. roman soared.

once, roman had got into a fight and lost - badly. it was five to one, and the one was a theatre kid freshman, so it wasn’t the most unpredictable war waged… but to be fair, roman did get in a couple of good punches, so all was not lost.

and he’d laid in the dust for an hour afterwards, gasping for air, adrenaline still pounding through his veins, regretting nothing. his legs were weary, far too weary, he couldn’t see… was he seriously going to die in the dirt behind the school bike racks? from the way the remaining pools of his vision were blurring and skidding, it seemed so.

but then, through the ringing of his ears, he’d heard footsteps. a drink carton hit the floor and apple juice spilled into the dust. then he’d felt himself be lifted from the ground by some unknown force - angel’s wings, as he floated up to heaven. heaven smelt of acrylic paint, leather and honey-flavoured bodywash. heaven smelt exactly how he had expected it would.

a sharp pain seared his cheek and his eyes burst open with a monumental gasp. virgil’s angelic face, haloed by a white-blue sky, came into focus.  
‘roman? oh, god, are you okay?’  
despite it all, roman gave a crooked grin and shot him a jaunty thumbs up before he blacked out.

he’d awoken on a bed that smelt of acrylic paint and leather - though without the honey-flavoured bodywash and with the heavy comforting scent of fresh linen. he sat up, dazed. where the…  
someone was sitting in a chair next to him, looking terribly afraid.  
‘ro? holy fucking shit!’  
a choking laugh, a blur of arms and honey, honey, honey, all the way down.

virgil, in all his 5’3 glory, had lifted up the unconscious roman, carried him to his house (he lived five minutes away from school, but it had taken nearly an hour) laid him on his bed and waited patiently for him to wake up. his bruises were anointed, his cuts and split lip were clean and there was a hot water-bottle at his chest. roman was thankful he’d saved his life, but jesus christ, if he wasn’t gay before he was now.

virgil’s mother - a rounder, sweeter, more feminine virgil - had come up with a cup of chamomile tea for them both and anxiety medication for her son. she complimented his eyes and he joked back, thanking her profusely for the tea and apologising for dropping in so unexpectedly. she bustled out of the room with an enchanted smile (better replace ‘woo-er of men’ with ‘woo-er of everyone’ on his list on titles) and he turned to virgil, who was grinning.  
‘she loved you.’  
‘who doesn’t?’  
virgil hit him over the head with a pillow.

‘how’d you get into a fight anyway?’  
he’d been expecting the question. they’d been playing chess, but it got too competitive and turned to trash talk, which turned to banter, which turned to talk.  
roman examined his sock. ‘alex weaver was being a homophobic piece of shit and i may’ve gotten a little worked up.’ not a bonafide lie - he was being homophobic. he just couldn’t tell the whole truth. a little lie of omission, as logan would say.  
‘oh. next time…’  
‘i know, i know, try and talk it out…’  
‘aim for the face and get a couple in for me.’  
roman gave him a sideways glance and virgil snorted.  
‘i’m just kidding. violence is not the answer, princey.’  
‘i was angry! i hit him over the head with a metal object!’  
‘yet your ass was handed to you on a silver platter anyway…’  
‘i still don’t regret it.’ a chill of anger ran down his spine and he shivered.  
his companion gave a concerned frown, tilting his head. ‘are you cold? do you want a blanket?’

weaver had been making fun of virgil - imitating his gravelly voice, the way he talked out of the side of his mouth, how his bangs fell over his eyes. he’d mocked his sexuality, his height, the way he slapped his hand over his mouth when he laughed as if afraid to, until roman couldn’t take it anymore. he put down his bike and started walking.  
‘his freckles are the worst part,’ weaver had sneered. ‘god, they make him look like he’s constantly dirty or something. like he lives under a bridge-‘  
his posse of jerks were so busy laughing they didn’t notice roman princeford sneaking up behind their leader and bringing a bike helmet down over his head.

he’d lingered a little longer at virgil’s house after that, but eventually his parents needed him home. thanking mrs tempeste once again, he threw his coat over his shoulder and had stepped over the threshold before virgil barrelled into him at full force.

‘i was so scared, roman, but i’m… glad you’re okay.’ he’d detached himself slowly with a watery smile. ‘come again?’

despite his injuries, he’d skipped home, light as air.

come again he would. as the year went on, he, virgil, patton and logan got closer. they weren’t just a lunch table anymore, they were… actual friends.

‘it’s my birthday next week,’ virgil told him as he dug through his locker for his chemistry folder.  
_i already knew that. i’ve been counting down for weeks._  ‘oh, really?’ he chucked his history folder into the back of his locker, apparently engrossed in the task. ‘i’ll have to get you something extra-special….. anything in mind?’  
‘oh, you don’t have to… don’t worry, okay? seriously, you don’t have to get me anything, it’s cool.’  
‘goddamn it virgil, just let me get you a gift!’ he cried jokingly as he fished through folder a little more violently than usual (to hide the gentle flush in his cheeks).  
‘ughh, fine. anyway, my mom said it was okay for you guys to sleep over at mine. fancy it, your majesty?’  
_yes! yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!_ ‘i’ll have to clear my brimming schedule, but i suppose i’ll be there, if you insist.’  
virgil raised an eyebrow. ‘great. can’t wait.’  
‘me neither.’

to give credit where credit was due: roman was a very, very good actor. like, already starred in ten productions in the local theatre good. a career already on the other side of the door good. with this in mind, playing the role of someone who definitely didn’t have a crush on virgil tempeste had to be the most difficult role he’d ever played. the utter intensity of it, not to mention the fact that his scene happened to be a long and unending one, sapped his energy and he came home twice as exhausted as usual. only once he’d closed his bedroom door and leaned on it could he finally wipe off his stage-makeup. he’d sit on the floor, hugging his knees, his heart burning as he re-lived his every interaction with virgil in explicit detail until he couldn’t bear it anymore. then he’d wake up the next morning again, re-apply the makeup, and go about his business as usual.

could he really do it? could he keep to his role for an entire day without melting to a puddle at virgil’s feet?

he had no choice. he sighed heavily, electricity tingling in his fingertips, and reached for the eyeliner.

two hours later, he was sitting cross-legged on virgil’s bedroom floor, smiling and joking and trying not to utterly freak out. patton was sprawled across the carpet whilst logan kneeled neatly next to him, his posture perfect, fiddling with his nails. virgil himself lounged against his bed frame, sipping on his ever-present carton of apple juice.

‘okay, okay, how about we play this? one person asks a question and the others have to answer completely truthfully.’

‘although that does sound enjoyable, the objective sounds similar to the popular game ‘truth or dare.’ should we not play that instead?’

virgil rolled his eyes, placing his phone face down on his desk. ‘dares, dares, dares. they’re so dull! always the same ideas, always the same outcomes. now truths…’ he leaned in and roman felt his legs twitch, ‘those are interesting.’

‘alright, i suppose i’ll begin, then.’ logan repositioned himself. ‘have any of you ever had a detention?’

patton hadn’t. virgil and roman had.

‘homework twice, sassing the teacher three times, many for talking,’ roman listed off on his fingers. ‘you, virge?’

‘talked back to a teacher once, skipped class a couple of times, that’s really it. pat, you’ve really never had a detention?’

‘well…’ patton sat up straighter. ‘once i brought max into school, because he needed to go to the vet’s and i couldn’t go home and get him. the teacher was going to confiscate him and put me in detention but…’ he giggled. ‘he kind of licked her hand and she fell in love. she let me off with a warning and now she gives me dog treats to give to him whenever i see her.’

‘that,’ roman grinned, ‘was the definition of adorable. okay, what are your sexualities, if you’re comfortable with saying?’

‘asexual and aromantic,’ answered logan.

‘gay as a fuckin’ rainbow,’ said virgil, smirking at the others. roman felt himself flush slightly. _what_ _the_ _fuck_ , _ro?_ _you_ _already_ _knew_ _that!_ _stop_ _it_ , _cheeks_ , _stop_ _blushing_ , _goddamnit!_

‘and i’m pan!’ patton smiled widely, dimpling. virgil looked down at his hands quickly. ‘okay, you three… what’s your favourite kind of pasta?’

the game continued, simmered, boiled (when virgil pecked roman on the nose to aggravate him after a particularly vague answer) and eventually trailed off. the group settled for casual talk. patton was showing logan pictures of his new puppy on the other side of the room, there was a pizza coming in twenty minutes, roman’s nose was still tingling from the playful kiss - everything was pretty much perfect.

‘whatcha thinking about there, princey?’

electricity crackled at the base of his spine. roman turned to see virgil climbing up next to him on the bed (where he’d moved after the floor got cold) and settling down next to him. his voice was low and quiet and he looked thoughtful.

choosing not to answer the question, roman looked down at his palms - tanned, calloused, empty. ‘it’s so cold tonight.’

‘cold. like my heart.’

‘pfft, an obvious lie. i can tell you’re a softy under all the scary makeup.’

‘you’ve figured out my secret. now i have to kill you…’ virgil traced a finger across his throat.

‘i’d like to see you try, panic! at the everywhere. how would you hide my gorgeous and significantly larger than yours body?’

‘i’d cut you up and sell you on the black market. could get a nice amount for those eyes.’

‘…was that a compliment? if so, you need to work on them. telling a boy you like that you want to cut out his eyes and sell them will probably make him want to call the police, not your mobile.’

‘who said anything about me liking you?’

 _crap! fuck, fuck, fucking fuck_ … ‘i wasn’t implying you do. it was genuine advice, para-less,’ he murmured back. _nice save, it’s fine, yeppers, i’m the smoothest bitch in the world._

virgil smirked, running a finger over his black nails. ‘loving the emo puns, by the way, they definitely don’t make me want to throw myself off a tall object into the raging ocean.’

‘would you be ravaged by sharks on the spot or would you sink to the bottom and be rescued by a dashing mermaid?’

he glanced up, an amused glint in his eye. ‘does the mermaid look like you with abs?’

‘obviously.’

‘i’ll take the sharks.’ virgil reclined, resting his head on roman’s leg. his touch burned - he was salt and ice, an open flame. ‘so, completely hypothetical question. what would you tell a boy like?’

‘i…’ he trailed off, heart pounding, blood boiling. ‘i’d make sure he was gay, then charm his socks off, i suppose.’ or maybe i wouldn’t. maybe i’d tease him and befriend him and admire him from afar.

‘would you break it to him on a starlit rooftop with fireworks and violin music, or would you just… keep it small? leave a note in his locker or something?’

‘if i had access to fireworks, definitely the first one.’ below him, virgil snorted. ‘but i guess the second one works too. i might slip in a rose as well.’

‘gross, but very you. and do you realise you love him all at once, or do you slowly fall in love as you get to know him, beauty-and-the-beast style?’

roman gasped. ‘you made a disney reference! i knew you secretly loved my taste in movies!’

‘a single reference doesn’t mean i like every movie, prince charming. but yes, i do like disney. if you tell the others,’ he lowered his voice, ‘i’ll make sure they never find your body.’

the threat rolled off him. ‘the second one. and… you like disney.’

‘i guess i do?’

roman swallowed, his heart fluttering. ‘i love disney,’ he murmured.

all of a sudden, virgil was upright and there. they were practically nose to nose, foreheads brushing, virgil’s hand on his chin. a soft gasp escaped roman’s lips - those eyes! they were a winning blow, a dagger through the chest, deep and anxious and heavy and framed by curling chocolate lashes. he’d left the earth’s atmosphere and those nutmeg constellations were finally within reach.

‘and this boy, this hypothetical boy…’ virgil whispered into the cold shell of his ear. ‘should i tell him i love him?’

it was then that roman looked into those eyes, pooling moonshine, silver-edged and sharp, and knew for sure he was in love. he was in love with virgil - with his snide remarks and his calculated wit and his utter eccentricity. he was in love with his oversized hoodies and his obsession with apple juice and his dramatic eyeshadow. he was in love with… with everything. the sensation burned and seethed and turned in his gut until he felt freckled hands take his own.

‘should i tell him?’

‘yes,’ he breathed.

‘roman…’ virgil’s lips curved upwards and roman felt lightning surge down his spine. ‘can i tell you a secret?’

he felt himself give a gentle nod.

nutmeg constellations. moonshine eyes. acrylic paint on his sleeves, a leather jacket folded across a chair, the sweet and cloying softness of honey. he held his breath.

‘i think i’m in love,’ virgil sighed, his eyes fluttering closed. ‘and i’m in love with patton.’

x x x

he waited for virgil’s breathing to finally slow before quietly packing his bag, rolling up his mattress, leaving a kind note for mrs tempeste to thank her for her hospitality and leaving through the backdoor, unnoticed.

he walked, barefoot, down the pavement, his backpack jolting slightly with every step. he was still wearing his pyjamas. it was cold, but he couldn’t feel it.

he turned down the wrong path on purpose and clambered over the old iron gate, feeling the cool sensation of dewy grass between his toes. cows dozed under the widespread branches of an old oak. he kept walking.

above him was a velvety curtain of midnight blue. a silver sliver of moon observed, her eyes grey and glimmering as he climbed the hill. it was very, very dark and very, very quiet. his imagination did not lope ahead of him, nor did it murmur chilling tales into his ear. too dark, too quiet - his hands hung loose from his pockets.

below him was an empty field. above him was an empty sky. his insides were hollow, wrong. it didn’t hurt yet but he knew it would.

upon a suitably lonely hill, on a suitably lonely night, roman met heartbreak for the first time. he’d seen and read and dreamed of her, but she’d been different then - cold, malevolent, angular. she didn’t light a fire under his feet. she didn’t burn yet.

he took her pale hands. they were bitterly cold.

and the bitter cold spread, from the tips of his fingers to the curves of his wrists to the crinkles around his eyes to the pit of his stomach. he couldn’t shiver or wrap up warm or escape the sensation. slowly, wickedly, heartbreak turned him to stone.

then she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, brushing her lips against his neck. he wanted to scream. he wanted to shout and sob and take an axe to every apple tree in every orchard. he wanted to curse patton and virgil and logan until his tongue turned black and fell out of his head… only he didn’t. the only person he really wanted to curse right now was himself.

tomorrow, he’d go home. he’d talk to his parents about the sleepover and lie about how great it was. he’d go to his room with a fixed smile and work through all his homework until his hands were shaking too hard for him to write anymore. then he’d go to school, and see virgil’s beautiful eyes flicker over to patton, and he’d grin and tease and try to set them up. then he’d go home again, only to wake up the next day and have to do it all over. it would be like acting. he’d be playing another role.

heartbreak took his life in her nimble fingers and stretched it out to look like a mountain. then she took his body in her slender hands and made him oh so small. her palms closed over his vision and her veins up close were all he could see.

roman was a romanticist, a fantasist, a dreamer. his life revolved around hopes and thoughts and love. but heartbreak had taken his hopes, she’d taken his thoughts, and she’d put them in a box on a shelf, out of reach from his desperate grasp. he had nothing left.

and so, roman did the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. he lifted heartbreak’s hand from across his face and opened his eyes.

he had his dog. he had his parents. he had his acting and his writing and his books. he had his friends, he had his home, he had his life. maybe he wouldn’t get over virgil. maybe virgil and patton would fall in love and hold hands and kiss on moonlit rooftops and he’d stay forever on the isolated hill in the middle of the field. well, at least he’d be able to see the sunrise.

as if on cue, the sun tiptoed from behind the horizon and slowly, carefully, reds and pinks began to make their way across the navy sky. roman fell down and sat cross-legged on the grass. dew sparkled on the seed pods.

with a sound thump, heartbreak flopped down next to him. her skin brushed his, still achingly cold, but in the streaming rays of sunlight… slightly less. he turned and smiled at her, his skin dripped in gold.

her eyelashes fluttered and she turned to dust.

the dawn air tasted like honey and he arched his neck to drink it in, missing the hints of leather and acrylic paint he was used to but enjoying it nonetheless. wild rue dipped and shimmied in the breeze as slowly but surely, the warmth returned to his body.

he watched as the nutmeg constellations faded from the wide, empty sky.


End file.
